


Just Above Water

by Gaymotives



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Baby Watson, Canon Compliant, Declarations Of Love, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Irene Adler - Freeform, Mentions of Mary Morstan - Freeform, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Self Deprecating Sherlock, Slow Burn, other Sherlock characters - Freeform, s4 compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-08 08:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13454784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaymotives/pseuds/Gaymotives
Summary: Being in love with John Watson feels very near drowning to Sherlock Holmes. Being in love with John Watson feels very near drowning except his head stays just above water. Just barely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chapter fic that I am posting on this site and my first that I have posted in a very long time so if there is anything that is wonky or grammatically cringe worthy please send me a message! I'd truly appreciate your help. I'll update this fairly regularly, though I'm not sure how many chapters there will be. I've wanted to write a canon compliant fic for the longest time so forgive the baby, but she is here. She will only be featured slightly throughout. This is my story about what happens after series four, what happens when they make that final step with one another. I have about a million au fics half written that I will one day finish and post but for now, please enjoy this! Thank you so much for reading!

221B is dark save for the kitchen, the dust feels heavy and the air feels thick. Sherlock’s eyes burn slightly from staring too long into his microscope. His dressing gown, the tan one, feels almost too much. Too warm, too weighty, too itchy but he can’t bring himself to discard it. All of his clothes feel too much. His shirt too tight, his trousers too suffocating, his shoes - he can’t remember why he’d kept them on in the first place - too uncomfortable. Everything too uncomfortable, and when he really thinks about it - which is often - he doesn’t remember the last time he did feel comfortable. His body always overwhelmed or underwhelmed but never in between. Not since, and he fears never again.

If he listens hard enough, he can hear Ms. Hudson’s television, just slightly. She always turns it up at night after she’s taken her hearing aids out. Sometimes it reminds him he’s not alone, not completely, and he’s content to have the white noise. Sometimes it scratches at his ear drums until he has to go upstairs to John’s old room to get away from the faint noise.  

John’s old room.

There’s not much Sherlock thinks about these days that isn’t John. Not here but rather, on the other side of London, in a flat alone raising his daughter alone save for when there are cases. John used to think Sherlock was a hero, now their friendship is harder than ever. More effort than it’s ever been. He never wanted John to think of him as hero, he never was and he’s glad that John’s come to his senses about this at least, despite the pain it leaves in the pit of his very being when John looks at him with eyes that feel like disappointment.

When John was staying in 221B, seemingly lifetimes ago after Mary had shot Sherlock, things almost felt right again. There was tea, and a bit of laughter over takeaway. Stiff and awkward but oh so close. One night, in front of the fire, in their respective chairs John made an offhand comment about reincarnation. How he must’ve been a horrid person in a past life to deserve what he’d been dealt this time around. Sherlock bit his lip, staring into the flames instead of at John. Instead of at John who felt like he must’ve been a terrible type of person before to deserve Sherlock now. Or that’s how it seemed at the time, how it seems even now, even after everything.

After a few moments, fighting back tears, Sherlock had answered. “Maybe next time, we’ll get it right.” Standing and going to his room, leaving John behind to take from that what he would. Only letting the tears come once the door was securely shut.

Sherlock thinks reincarnation is a ridiculous notion, and never knew John to fancy the idea too much either before that, but throwing around the sentiment seemed borderline confessional at the time. _Please John, understand, please_. If he ever understood he’s never given it away.

Sherlock has baby proofed the flat, for when they visit which is not as often as he’d like but, still a precaution much needed and John had seemed grateful and grinned at him when he found out. The look had set Sherlock’s stomach into a scrambly mess and his collar pin pricked at his neck just a bit because the world seemed to slant back into place momentarily but fall away so quickly that it nearly gave him whiplash. Always does, when John looks at him that way. So similar to how he did those years back on their first case.

The room is suddenly much too dense, Sherlock could choke on the air, the memories clouding his vision. There’s a sudden impulse, a _need_ , to talk to John that he pushes down as he moves into his bedroom. _He doesn’t want to talk, he’s sleeping or busy, leave him be._ He strips down to his pants, and decides to take even those off before he climbs into the bed. Deliberately leaving his phone across the room. Sherlock buries himself into the duvet, it feels like years before he actually falls asleep.

In his dream John is there, grinning up at Sherlock brightly. He is like the sun, emanating light and warmth. Sherlock feels like Icarus, like he’s gotten too close and his skin has melted off leaving his chest open and his heart bared for all to see. For John to see. And John is looking up at him like he’s the world. Sherlock reaches out to him but he’s not close enough. Never close enough. As he steps forward the expression on John’s face changes from admiration to sadness, _step_ , from sadness to anger, _step_ , from anger to disappointment, _step_ , from disappointment to nothing. To seeing right through Sherlock like he’s not important, not even there. He’s icing over and Sherlock’s falling apart and the world is melting as John walks away from him to stand at a safe distance.

Sherlock wakes up in a cold sweat, tears streaming down his face. It’s still dark out, and he decides that’s enough sleep for the night.

He forces himself to his phone, begs the universe that there’s a message, anything. There’s nothing, he just barely stops a sob from tearing through his body. He wants to wail. He’s not okay, hasn’t been okay for so long and he misses John all the time and he wishes things were easy again and that he wasn’t afraid to just reach out to him.

The phone screen shifts light, about to go into sleep mode. He clicks again and takes a deep breath, opening his messages and then John’s name.

_Come over in the morning? You and Rosie, I’ll make tea and breakfast._

Sherlock’s thumb hovers over the send button, trying to work up the courage, shaking his head. Typing out _Please_ at the end and then, feeling pathetic, deleting it all in one go.

Sighing, he tries again. _Bit lonely here. S_ He sends it before he can second guess. He fights the urge to throw his phone at the wall and let it slam and break. He clutches it instead, the floor cold on his naked body. He’s surprised at the fact that his phone vibrates not 5 minutes later.

_Yeah here 2    Why r u up so late?_

Sherlock barely stops his heart from leaping out of his chest. _I can ask you the same thing._

_Hm I asked first_

_Fine. Can’t sleep much lately._

_Me either_

_Come over tomorrow? You and Rosie?_ Sherlock hates that he can’t make it sound passive, that it sounds so desperate no matter how he types it out. He squeezes his eyes tight, waits. A million thoughts run through his head, a million regrets. He should’ve never sent it.

 _Yeah :)_ It comes to his phone roughly 11.671 minutes later. John hesitated, but he still put a smile. Unsure of how to respond, Sherlock rises and moves to the bathroom. Feeling much lighter than before, but with his dream still lingering at the back of his mind. Constantly in fear of cocking everything up, again. He takes a deep breath, looking at himself in the mirror. His face older, more weathered and weary than it ever was before. Scars across his chest and abdomen and stomach. He curls his nose at himself in disgust and turns on the shower. Ugly. John must think so too, he has to think so. No longer mysterious and cool and interesting. Now scarred and needy. He steps into the water before it even turns warm.

 

The sun is high when John’s knock sounds at the door. Sherlock knows he still has the key, never gave it back, carries it with him - always. Yet he knocks. The curtains are drawn back, natural light floods the entire flat and Sherlock tidied - actually tidied and he’s sure John will notice. He feels nervous and giddy as he hovers by the door to 221B, listening to Ms. Hudson’s greeting. “Oh John how lovely it is to see you! Is there a case on dear? I can take Rosie.” Hears John’s reply. “Afraid not Ms. H. We’re just visiting today. Well at least so far. Never really know when one’ll spring up.” Hears the smile in his voice, the chuckle from Ms. Hudson, the “Well go on up then, sure he’s waiting for you.” She makes him sound eager, he hates it, he curls his nose at it. He is eager, to be fair, but John needn’t know.

Footsteps on the stairs, John’s gait slightly off from carrying Rosie on one hip. Sherlock practically flies into his chair, tries to act nonchalant, lazing about with his legs crossed. Tries to look like he’s doing anything other than waiting. Knows he’s unsuccessful. Should’ve picked up a book, the paper, his laptop - for christ’s sake - his mobile.

Silver gold hair peaks around the corner of the door first, and then there he is, bathed in sunlight. Sherlock’s breath catches. Rosie is chewing on something plastic in her hands. John is smiling. It’s the most beautiful sight Sherlock has ever seen.

And god. Being in love with John Watson feels very near drowning to Sherlock Holmes. Being in love with John Watson feels very near drowning except his head stays just above water. Just barely. Because every time he's near, Sherlock breathes again. 

“H’lo!” He says as he steps in. Sherlock smiles back, mouth closed and upturned in an effort to keep his grin from breaking free. Notices the puffing of John’s chest as he breathes 221B in. He always does that, when he enters. Breathes 221B in like it’s a scent he’s missed for far too long, like he’s coming home. The thought pangs sharply within Sherlock’s chest.

“Hello.” He responds, before remembering he completely forgot to be polite and make tea and what’s more is that he knows there’s none of that spare formula left and for a moment he panics but John is one step of ahead of him. Brilliant John, hoists a baby bag onto the coffee table.

“I figured you’d be out of formula here, so I brought some with me just in case.” Sherlock nods, stands.

“I’ll make tea.”

“It’s alright I got it, if you hold Rosie for me.”

“Yes, I…”

“Here let me…got her?”

“Yes.”

Their hands brush. A beat. Their eyes meet and stay. John breaks contact first.

“Look, she’s grinning like a madwoman.”

Sherlock, fearing he is too, turns and moves back to his chair with Rosie clutching on, saying “Shlog” around the toy in her mouth. She can’t say Sherlock just yet, it’s a bit too much for her at one and a half, but she is remarkably smart. John credits Sherlock for that, but Sherlock credits her genetics. Whenever he states this, John goes a bit cold and distant. Sherlock tries not to say it anymore.

Holding Rosie, Sherlock listens as John fills the kettle, watching from his place in the sitting room. John’s muscle memory leading him to where everything would be and is, Sherlock aches with the knowledge that he remembers. Remembers the flat, remembers how Sherlock takes his tea, remembers it all. Sets it on the stove and turns back around, leaning against the counter with his eyebrows raised.

“Did you tidy up?” He asks, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it smirk sitting gently on his lips.

“I um. Ms. Hudson dusted and I...things got too cluttered to think and besides Rosie was coming so I figured I’d…”

“This is the nicest it’s looked in a while, I’ll give you that.” He says and Sherlock purses his lips right as Rosie reaches out and tugs on his hair.

“Shlog!” She gurgles in delight, giggling. Sherlock catches John’s soft smile before he turns his eyes to Rosie. The kettle boils.

Sherlock can hear the sounds of John turning off the stove, soft pouring of hot water. Rosie grins at him and he notes once again all the parts of her that look like John. Her eyes the same blue, her nose, her ears. She's beautiful, she's his wholly and truly. John made her and she's part of him and Sherlock loves her for it. Sherlock loves her. "What's this then?" He asks her bringing his hand up to where hers lies in his curls. She giggles and tugs gently and he shakes his head. "Don't tug it!" 

John walks in holding the tea, he sets it down, sits. Sherlock risks a glance at him and notices that he's already staring, immediately averts his eyes. God, how are things always so awkward unless they're solving crimes? How did things shift this way? Sherlock hates it.  

"Anything good on for you lately?" John asks after taking a sip of his too-hot-tea and clearing his throat. 

"Mm, nope. If there was you would know, I never go on a case without you." He answers, and he means it. Means it so fervently it hurts, means it in the way he would mean it if he said what he'd truly wanted to say. _'I never do anything important and good without you'_.  

John looks very near relieved. Rosie wiggles out of Sherlock's lap and onto the floor. Sherlock glances over at her just to have something to do other than stare at John. "Hows work then?" He asks, desperate to get around small talk but unsure how.

"Good, yeah. It's..." Boring, Sherlock reads in his face. He's bored with it. "Good." 

"Hm that's good." Sherlock nods. 

There's a silence, John watches Rosie and Sherlock watches John and they sip at their tea. 

Sherlock wants to say that John makes the best tea. That it's never nearly as good when he makes it for himself and that he's very grateful that John still knows how he takes it. Can't remember if he ever told him those things. Wishes he'd said thank you more before. Wishes for too much, so much more than he could ever have. 

"I'm looking for a new flat." John says suddenly, offers no explanation as to why except. "I think a smaller place would be better for us and somewhere closer to...well...here. So we can meet up quicker for cases and, visit more. That kind of thing." John says. Sherlock's heart leaps and plummets at the same time. Closer to here, but not here. 

"Find anything?" 

"Nothing cheap enough really." 

"I see..." Sherlock trails off. He can no longer afford his current flat alone? Sherlock figures that must be it. At least not with the baby to take care of. Either that or the lease is up soon. A moment passes. Ask him, just ask him to move back in, god. Even if its temporary. Deep breath, mouth open to speak. "Erm. John?" 

"Hmm?" 

"You could, if you wanted to you could...move back here. Temporarily even, until you find a place and-"

"No that's-"

"You wouldn't be imposing. I like having Rosie here and-"

"There's only the one extra bedroom so-"

"Rosie's small enough right now that you could share the room and-"

"I really don't want to impose Sherlock-"

"You wouldn't need to pay any rent, just save up it'd be fine." Sherlock leaves out the 'please'. Leaves out the 'just having you back here would be enough'. Tries to make his face as passive as possible, tries not to show how earnest he is. John purses his lips and sighs. 

"Temporarily?" 

"For as long as you want. Need." 

"Hm." John furrows his brow, looks somewhere on the carpet, pulls his bottom lip slightly into his mouth. Mulls it over. Sherlock waits, patiently impatient. "Alright, yeah. For a bit, to get on our feet." 

Sherlock fights the urge to jump up and scream for joy. He nods instead, "Good, when do you need to move in by? I'll help move your things over, Mycroft could probably-"

"Sherlock," John gently stops him. "Mycroft doesn't need to help. I've had most of my stuff packed for the longest time. I'm donating Mary's things to charity and binning the rest and I haven't got a lot to begin with. The furniture will go into storage until further notice. Just Rosie's stuff really needs to come. My clothes and some boxes. It's a days work." 

"Right." Sherlock nods, exhaling slowly. "When do you want to move in? I'll make sure I get the room upstairs ready for you and Rosie..."

John smiles fondly, "I have to settle some things beforehand. Next weekend?" 

"Sounds agreeable." Sherlock states calmly, though he's fighting the urge to burst into tears. To fall to his knees and wrap his arms around John's waist and bury his face into his chest and thank him and thank him and thank him. Instead he picks up his tea and sips and Rosie says something and John looks at her and says "Is that so?" And Sherlock's heart squeezes so tight in his chest it might explode. 

Moments later, John picks up Rosie and lets his muscle memory guide him through the flat that he's spent perhaps 24 hours in total within the last two years and Sherlock lets himself imagine for a minute - just a minute - that John's missed it here as much as he's been missed here and that he'll be happy to move back in. That it'll be like coming home. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's sure he'll never stop wanting, craving, needing the sight of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took a hundred years, I'm sorry. I'm in my last semester of college so things are pretty busy over here. I hope you forgive me, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

John, Sherlock notes as they stand in the upstairs bedroom with boxes laid around them, carries a lot of tension in his upper back, shoulders and neck. He wants to go over to him, rub gentle but persistent circles into the knots with his thumb. Sherlock could’ve been a masseuse, had he wanted - has always had a knack for locating knots and being able to push just the right amount of pressure to release them. He supposes that’s because there’s a science behind it.

John carries so much weight on his shoulders. Sherlock wishes he never had to, and when John huffs and puts his hands on his hips and turns to Sherlock with a small smile - Sherlock decides he’s going to make it a point that he doesn’t ever have to carry it alone again. 

“Well, I don’t suppose we could take a break and have a cuppa?” John asks, and Sherlock smirks, they haven’t taken anything out of the boxes yet, but all of the boxes and other things are set in specific areas of the room for easier organization when the unpacking does happen. “Bit hungry too, actually.” John adds after a moment.

“You make the tea I’ll order the food?” Sherlock asks and John nods, smiling. It’s just the two of them for the afternoon. They didn’t want to lose track of Rosie while focusing on unpacking, so Ms. Hudson gladly took her off of their hands for a while. Sherlock’s grateful for it, he hasn’t been able to spend time alone with John - just John and no cases and no baby and no people - for a long while.

They head downstairs and John moves about the kitchen making them tea while Sherlock calls their favorite Chinese takeaway place and a comfortable sort of quiet falls over them. Sherlock feels so relieved, so relieved that they’re here again. After everything, even if it’s temporary, the Universe feels right. As though everything has fallen back into place. A warm feeling floods Sherlock’s chest, he knows it won’t get to last, but he lets the feeling sit - just a little bit - he deserves it.

John joins him in the sitting room, two cups of tea in hand. “Flip a coin to see who pays for the takeaway?” He says with a smirk, Sherlock laughs, takes his tea from John’s hand.

“Don't be ridiculous. I have no problem getting it, I always get it.” He answers. John continues to smile and he nods but his jaw twitches just so and Sherlock clears his throat and does well to change the subject, John’s always been a bit sensitive about money. “Ms. Hudson, she’s thrilled about this.”

John shifts in his seat and shrugs. “Always wanted to be a grandmother I suppose.”

“That and she missed you being here.” Sherlock says, his eyebrows raising before he takes a sip of tea.

The doorbell rings then, and Sherlock sets his tea aside to go get the takeaway. When he reappears with bags, John stands to help. They spread the food across the coffee table and things feel like they did those years ago - Chinese takeaway on an afternoon where no case presents itself. A movie on the telly, stolen food paired with stolen glances paired with laughter. The press of shoulders and legs and the possibility of maybe something. Sherlock wonders if they could ever get there again, he understands that they cannot. John would never love him that way, but at least they’re here again, somewhere in the middle of their story together.

Sherlock picks up a dumpling, John spoons some vegetarian chow mien onto his plate. “I’ve been keeping my eye on flats around here, you don’t happen to know anyone who owes you another favour mate?” He asks, and then furrows his brows slightly, clearly feeling uncomfortable about something. Sherlock is unsure if he's uncomfortable asking or uncomfortable with the word mate. 

And truly there isn’t a word for the bone deep ache that sentence causes in all of Sherlock’s body, not wanting John to ever leave and wanting to be more than his mate, and so he shakes his head without even bothering to think about it. “No... Sorry, mate.” He draws out the M and emphasizes the T and John looks even more uncomfortable than he did moments before. The new swoop of his hair, not quite as new anymore, catches the sunlight from the window. Eyes as blue as the deepest ocean stare back at him, Sherlock wonders when it’ll all stop. When John moves out and raises Rosie, when cases eventually stop and their time together does as well. When Sherlock buys his cottage in Sussex Downs and Baker Street is empty. When they get too old for the shadows and the secrets of London. Sherlock wonders when the last time they see each other will be. Sherlock wonders when he will stop loving him. Never.

And then he stops wondering all together and shoves another dumpling into his mouth before the wet heat behind his eyes has a chance to break free. John shifts, pauses, picks up a fortune cookie.

“Want to have a go at predicting my fortune?” He asks, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly, eyes shining with a bit of mischief behind them. Memories. John is good at changing the subject, at breaking the silence. 

Smirking, Sherlock hums and narrows his eyes slightly, playfully as John cracks open a cookie. He reads the fortune silently to himself as he pops a piece of the cookie in his mouth. With an even bigger smile, he looks up at Sherlock with bright eyes, and Sherlock nearly loses all of his composure then and there. John is so beautiful.

“Well?”

“Erm, right yes. It says…" A pause as he thinks, and then he smirks. "You are very lucky to be in such great company.”

John laughs, full and complete. It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to start laughing too.

“You arse!” John says, giggles slowing down.

“I got it right then?” Sherlock asks.

John’s tongue darts out against his bottom lip. “Yeah.”

Sherlock watches John's tongue and he knows he didn’t get it right, he knows he’ll never know the actual fortune. This is how they play this game. Sherlock is good at making John laugh when they play this game. Sherlock loves this game. There’s a bit of...something...behind John’s stare and Sherlock would spend an eternity trying to figure it out if he could.

“Alright.” John says, looking away awkwardly after a moment. “Let me put away these leftovers and we can get back to it then yeah?”

He barely waits for Sherlock to nod before he’s on his feet.

Later, after everything is settled in and John is putting Rosie to sleep, Sherlock reads John’s blog. Nostalgia and sadness wash over him. Sadness that John doesn’t feel it worth it to keep writing on the blog. Nostalgia at what might’ve been if they kept moving forward.

He almost doesn’t notice the sounds of John’s footsteps coming down the stairs. As he hears socked feet hitting the creaky bottom step, he almost jumps out of his skin, closing the laptop quickly.

“What’s that about then?” John asks, curious and amused. He’d noticed.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing, I…” He falters and looks away. He wants to tell John everything, absolutely everything. Has always wanted to tell John absolutely everything but that’s just not what they do. “Was reading about something but it turned out to be inaccurate. Frustrating, really.”

“Huh.” John says, sucking his bottom lip slightly into his mouth and then shaking his head. “Alright.”

“Well, I should-”

“I mean, you don’t have to. I’m not, I mean I…”

“I suppose I could-”

“Was going to watch a movie if you wanted to-”

“Just not James Bond...”

“I can make some tea or-”

“No I can make it, I haven’t made any for you since you’ve been here.”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock stands slowly, moving to go make them tea. He hears John setting up. It’s a bit quiet, he wants to ask him about the blog, why he’d stopped. If he’d start writing again. Maybe another time.

The rest of the night is spent easy. They sit on the couch together, a cushion between them as they watch a movie Sherlock finds boring and predictable for the most part, but the companionship is nice. They feel miles apart the whole time, Sherlock looks for an opportune time to scoot closer. It never comes. Then they go their separate ways to bed.

 

Sherlock quickly becomes accustomed to waking up to Rosie crying and John’s gentle cooing muffled only by a floor above. Sherlock quickly becomes accustomed to making a warm bottle for her some nights to bring upstairs. Other nights Sherlock will get up with John in solidarity as he sits on the couch rocking the baby back to sleep. Other nights there’s blissful silence. Sherlock doesn’t know that he actually finds those nights to be blissful. He lays awake anyway, wishing for those private middle-of-the-night moments with the two people he loves more than anything in the world.

John never goes on dates anymore, never even chats up women when they go out grocery shopping or the like. Sherlock goes with John more than not, unable to pretend there are more pressing matters at home. John is the most pressing matter, everything else is background noise. So Sherlock goes to the store. And even when women flirt with John, he seems indifferent. Sherlock knows it’s because he’s still grieving and still guilty and doesn’t want to go down that road again with anyone anytime soon.

Yet, Sherlock can pretend that the women who flirt with John only to be turned down believe they're in a relationship. That they're a real family. Sherlock likes to pretend this when they go out. It hurts no one and no one has to know. It’s just a couple of seconds of smugness at their conclusions. He wins. He gets the cuddles and the affection and the sex and the love. A momentary game of make-believe. A deep down secret he’ll keep to his grave because John would be so angry if he found out. A reality he craves constantly and will never have.

Their lives fall into a sort of routine with John back. A routine of breakfasts and dinners and tea and cases and experiments kept to one small corner of the counter and going to the store together and rows about money and Rosie and experiments expanding beyond one small corner of the counter.  Of warm visits with Ms. Hudson and sometimes middle of the night weariness coaxing Rosie back to sleep. Soft smiles or full blown sulking silent treatment. The first two months seem to slip by them like water through fingertips, and Sherlock realizes that John hasn’t been looking at flats nearby at all. He resolves not to remind him.

 

 

One night they burst into the flat with laughter on their lips, the pounding of adrenaline deep in their chests. John’s smiling brightly, warmly, he looks so happy. Sherlock wants nothing more than to reach out. To touch and to take. He doesn’t. He thinks momentarily that one day they will be too old for this, but he pushes the thought aside. They’re here now and they’re healing.

Together they lean back against the wall and John’s giggles get high pitched in the way that makes Sherlock want to bottle the moment to keep forever. They still smile even after laughter dies down, and Sherlock wonders why John never included these moments in his blog entries. The laughter, the fortune cookies and the closeness. John’s a private person, Sherlock knows. Had he wanted to keep their moments private? Or had he figured that the moments meant nothing to Sherlock and therefore weren’t worth mentioning? Had he stopped writing the blog all together because he felt nothing about Sherlock was worth mentioning anymore? The thought twists Sherlock’s smile into a grimace. Anxiety bubbles in his throat. He's unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

“John, why did you stop writing the blog?”

John’s smile falls slowly into a frown as he processes the question, his jaw sets and twitches as he starts to think about the answer. “I…” He starts, but then shakes his head. “I don’t know Sherlock. I just don’t do it anymore.”

“But why did you stop?” Might as well dig himself a deeper grave, he needs to know.

Sherlock can see John’s hesitation to answer, but if they’re doing this again - real friendship like the one they had before - they’d have to talk. And as uncomfortable as that may be, it’s nearly unavoidable. Sherlock has too many questions and so does John and Sherlock wants to avoid tense terrible arguments and miscommunication and anything that would push them apart as much as he can now. John breaths in quickly through his nose, puffs out his chest slightly in a display of discomfort. Sherlock waits.

“I. Christ alright. I stopped because I was so. God I was so fucking angry with you Sherlock. I was done with all of it, with everything. I wanted nothing to do with the cases or our life together anymore. I was ready to walk away forever and...I don’t know, now I guess I just feel as though starting up again with all the cases that I already missed would be pointless. I'm not even sure anyone would read anymore, and I didn't actually think you cared one way or another anyway. You hated my blog and it's inaccuracies and romanticism and it's over use of punctuation. So. Erm. Yeah." 

John finishes and Sherlock feels surprisingly empty by the declaration. He was expecting to be understanding, or angry or very upset and yet he’s none of those things. He’s glad John didn’t walk out of his life forever, so very glad, but his mind is racing. It doesn’t matter enough to start again. Sherlock doesn’t matter enough. Their life, their friendship, what they do - it's pointless. Sherlock feels suddenly sick. "I've always liked your blog." He says, pursing his lips slightly.

“Sherlock.” John says gently, turning towards him, concern laced in his features. “Look, um, I’m not good at this you know, at talking but. Just. I’m sorry, alright? About that stuff and about not writing the blog anymore if it matters to you. Really, I am.”

Sherlock nods, he worries his lower lip between his teeth gently and works up the courage to ask one more question for the night. “Will you ever write it again?”

He sees John smile in his peripheral vision. “I could do, if you wanted, it would be nice to get it up again.” He answers, and places his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, letting it rest there.

There’s a moment, a small section of silence carved between them as Sherlock meets his eyes, and there are about a million more things they haven’t talked about that they should. Things they might never talk about. But Sherlock smiles anyway and John smiles back. John is the one to retreat first after a moment, turning to head up the stairs to their flat and it hasn’t gotten old yet, John living there again. It never could. Even if this living arrangement is just temporary, Sherlock’s sure he'll never stop wanting, craving, needing the sight of John. John in his socked feet sitting on their couch or in his chair or standing beside Sherlock right where he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd and written by me who is decidedly un-British so please forgive any errors and feel free to notify me of any mistakes or awkward wording! Thank you so much for reading, it means so much!! You can find me @gaymotives on tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me @gaymotives on tumblr, I'll post updates there! This is mostly unbeta'd, though my very kind fiance Jude (@militarykink on tumblr) listened raptly as I read every edit out loud to him and told me things that should be fixed or sounded weird. So for that I am infinitely thankful.


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